Woman is generous, and all for one, or one for all, must pay the painter, and furnish the hairs of the brush.  Now, muse upon that which is written here. Ave, Hail, Eva, woman; or Eva, woman, Ave, Hail.  Yes, she makes and unmakes.  Heigh, then, for the inkstand!  What does woman like best?  What does she desire?  All the special things of love; and woman is right.  To have children, to produce an imitation, of nature, which is always in labour.  Come to me, then, woman!—­come to me, Eva!

With this the author began to dip into that fertile inkpot, where there was a brain-fluid, concocted by virtues from on high in a talismanic fashion.  From one cup there came serious things, which wrote themselves in brown ink; and from the other trifling things, which merely gave a roseate hue to the pages of the manuscript.  The poor author has often, from carelessness, mixed the inks, now here, now there; but as soon as the heavy sentences, difficult to smooth, polish, and brighten up, of some work suitable to the taste of the day are finished, the author, eager to amuse himself, in spite of the small amount of merry ink remaining in the left cup, steals and bears eagerly therefrom a few penfuls with great delight.  These said penfuls are, indeed, these same Droll Tales, the authority on which is above suspicion, because it flows from a divine source, as is shown in this the author’s naive confession.

Certain evil-disposed people will still cry out at this; but can you find a man perfectly contented on this lump of mud?  Is it not a shame?  In this the author has wisely comported himself in imitation of a higher power; and he proves it by atqui.  Listen.  Is it not most clearly demonstrated to the learned that the sovereign Lord of worlds has made an infinite number of heavy, weighty, and serious machines with great wheels, large chains, terrible notches, and frightfully complicated screws and weights like the roasting jack, but also has amused Himself with little trifles and grotesque things light as zephyrs, and has made also naive and pleasant creations, at which you laugh directly you see them?  Is it not so?  Then in all eccentric works, such as the very spacious edifice undertaken by the author, in order to model himself upon the laws of the above-named Lord, it is necessary to fashion certain delicate flowers, pleasant insects, fine dragons well twisted, imbricated, and coloured—­nay, even gilt, although he is often short of gold—­and throw them at the feet of his snow-clad mountains, piles of rocks, and other cloud-capped philosophers, long and terrible works, marble columns, real thoughts carved in porphyry.